Three books comprise the Riddle-Master trilogy (”The Riddle-Master of Hed,” “The Heir of Sea and Fire,” and “Harpist in the Wind”), now available in a single volume. McKillip wrote this story in the late 1970s, and in the foreword she remarks on Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy as inspiration. While I can see echoes of his influence, McKillip has crafted a completely original classic fantasy.

The story follows the journey of Morgon, the Prince of rural and peace-loving Hed. He bears an unusual destiny he would just as soon avoid. He’s a likeable character, but the story starts slowly. Early on, Morgon is lost at sea during an attempt on his life, and he finds himself suffering from amnesia in the care of Astrin Ymris, land-heir to the land of Ymris. The story picks up substantially once Astrin takes Morgon to Astrin’s brother, Hereu. At that point, the reader first learns about the story’s major villains, the shape-shifters, who attack Morgon. Ultimately, Morgon’s quest for answers about his destiny takes him to the High One, who doesn’t turn out to be what Morgon expects.

The second book (”The Heir of Sea and Fire”) follows the trail of a different character: Morgon’s betrothed, Princess Raederle of An. She decides she is not going to sit quietly while Morgon has gone missing for a year in the High One’s Erlenstar Mountain. But as Raederle makes her own journey to the Mountain to ask the High One about Morgon’s fate, she must answer the riddles about her own life, and face the legacy she has inherited as the heir of sea and fire. “The Heir of Sea and Fire” surpasses the first and last books: McKillip’s prose is especially evocative and thought-provoking, and Raederle is a fascinating character who’s sympathetic in some ways Morgon is not. This book revolves around mostly female characters, a nice change of pace from most fantasy literature.

The final book unites the Prince of Hed with Raederle. While the focus is clearly on Morgon, the Princess of An plays a pivotal role. They again visit the same interesting, unique, and carefully written lords of the realm that he and Raederle met in the first and second books respectively, as the realm draws inevitably closer to an apocalyptic confrontation between the shape-shifters, the land-rulers, the High One, and Morgon and Raederle. The trilogy ends with a smashing and surprising conclusion.

The villains of the story (including but not limited to the shape-shifters) are given relatively short-shrift in the writing, unusual in the fantasy genre. They appear only intermittently and briefly. But in hindsight, Morgon and Raederle struggle more within themselves than against their antagonists, certainly a truism of life most people tend not to notice.

McKillip has written a beautifully imaginative and intensely metaphoric tale of self-discovery. Her story recalls Paulo Coelho’s “The Alchemist” as parable. Her prose is fluid and poetic, frequently yielding to lengthy description and extended metaphors. Her emphasis on riddles gives her characters’ lives a depth that fantasy readers often try to experience vicariously. Note that McKillip’s riddles aren’t brain-teasers but rather the deeper existential questions of life, such as “what is my purpose?” My own life – like everyone’s – is also a journey of self-discovery, but somehow reframing the adventure as a quest to answer riddles bearing the weight of destiny gives the story layers of meaning that I often miss in my own more prosaic journey.

The heritage of magic and power that Morgon and Raederle inherit, struggle against, make peace with, and ultimately use also give the book a sense of wonder. Taken as metaphor, everyday folks tend to get lost in their own ordinariness (hence they seek out escapist works like this), but we all have far more power to shape our lives than most people acknowledge, much less exercise. McKillip has created a world that resonates powerfully with the reader who believes there is a kind of magic in the possibilities of life.

That said, the plot grew a bit incomprehensible and convoluted as the story progressed. Morgon’s and Raederle’s powers made less and less sense. Theme sometimes eclipsed plot and character as the paramount element of McKillip’s writing. If you are a fan of the gritty realism and detail of, say, George R.R. Martin, the story may not appeal to you so much. But if you love deeply textured characters struggling in a multilayered tale riddled (ahem) with well-planned surprises, I highly recommend the Riddle-Master trilogy.

Don’t expect any gay content. In truth, there are only two or three romantic relationships of any substance in the story. It’s possible that she could have incorporated some gay background characters in some casual way, but in all honesty, this kind of story makes relationships of any sort secondary. In fact, even the main romance between Morgon and Raederle stretched credulity a bit. Raederle became engaged to Morgon simply because her father promised to marry her to whomever answered a certain riddle. The book suggests they knew each other previously, but not very well, and I found myself questioning Raederle’s passion and commitment to Morgon. While a super-romance makes for good drama, asking “what’s her motivation here?” distracts from the story.

I adore this novel. It’s a short, easy read, and I read it whenever I feel sad, lonely, or somehow distressed.

It’s the tale of Menolly, who wants to be a Harper (like a bard) in a world where Harpers are all men. After the events of the first book in the series (“Dragonsong”), she finds herself at Harperhall. She must traverse the politics and her own naivete to find her place. Her nine Fire Lizards, which are like miniature dragons, complicate her adventure.

Menolly is a wonderfully engaging character, and the reader can easily relate to the trials and tribulations she endures. By the end, the reader is cheering for her!

The relatively brief novel benefits from precise and crisp prose. With a minimum of words, McCaffrey evokes vivid setting, character, and action. Perhaps because she is an old-school fantasy author, she does not succumb to the plague of over-writing so common in modern fantasy literature. A tone of hopefulness and adventure renders the book into an exciting and uplifting tale.

There is no gay content.

Book. Forster, E. M. “Maurice” (published 1971; written 1913-14)
Overall Quality 4.0 / 5.0 (recommended)
Gay Content 4.5 / 5.0
Gay Positivity 3.0 / 5.0 (mixed, but weighted more heavily toward positive)

Movie. Maurice (1987)
Overall Quality 4.0 / 5.0 (recommended)
Gay Content 4.5 / 5.0
Gay Positivity 3.5 / 5.0 (mixed, but weighted more heavily toward positive)

The Story

The movie “Maurice” (pronounced “Morris”) is a faithful Merchant & Ivory adaptation of E.M. Forster’s novel of the same name. The story follows Maurice (James Wilby) and Clive (Hugh Grant), two gentlemen in turn-of-the-century England, who meet and develop a romantic relationship while studying at Cambridge. Unfortunately, homosexuality is still criminal in England at that time, and it would seem the whole world is set against them.

The book is well-titled: the story’s true focus falls on Maurice’s personal evolution as a human being and as a homosexual. The movie, by contrast, places greater emphasis on the relationships involved, while incorporating Maurice’s personal journey.

** Note – This commentary contains as much analysis as review, and so contains spoilers.

The Movie

The story makes for a lovely gay romance, although somewhat inconsistent in quality. In fact, the editing in the first half is simply poorly done. Scenes end abruptly and jarringly, just as they seem to be getting started. As the movie progresses, the editing evens out, and the story becomes more fleshed out. The last half turns into an engrossing exploration of two paths gay men might take in turn-of-the-century England.

The last two scenes are easily the most powerful and poignant in the movie (not so in the book), contrasting Maurice’s and Clive’s choices, and yet also leaving them open for interpretation. I see a happy ending for one, and a bittersweet, sad resolution for the other. But I also see how other people might interpret the ending differently.

The film also does a great job of exploring the themes raised in the story. It questions culture (such as England versus France, Italy, or Greece), class, and wealth and sexuality. It explores how a society founded on judgmentalism can be personally destructive. Everyone must fit in a box, and every box must relate to the others in a clear hierarchy. Failing this, the characters begin to experience crises of self-identity.

The film also boasts a fantastic cast. Wilby brings the right mixture of sensitivity and obtuseness to the role. Interestingly, Grant’s performance marks the greatest departure from the characterization in the book. The supporting cast, including Denholm Elliott (as Dr. Barry), Rupert Graves (as Alec Scudder), and Ben Kingsley (hypnotist Lasker-Jones), simply shines.

I should also note the movie departs from the book in some minor respects. Some scenes are re-ordered, and the movie adds a dramatic sequence about Risley (a minor character played by Mark Tandy) being entrapped, arrested, and convicted for homosexual acts. In the movie, this event precipitates Clive’s breakdown, which leads to a key development in his relationship with Maurice. In the book, Clive’s breakdown occurs without this catalyst as he apparently begins to re-think or grow out of his infatuation with Maurice.

The Book

As I mentioned above, the book doesn’t come across so much as a gay romance as a fictional biography of Maurice C. Hall. Still, it makes for an engaging, relatively fast-paced read, and I will say the scene in which Maurice and Clive first declare their love for each other is one of the most romantic passages I’ve ever read for a same-sex couple.

Forster, a skilled author, also writes with a nice turn of phrase. My favorite quote, which I swear I am going to use in real conversation some day:

“[Clive:] ‘May I ask whether you intend–’
“‘No, you may not ask,’ interrupted [Maurice]. ‘You belong to the past’” (244-5).

The book exceeds the movie in terms of evenness – it’s well-written all the way through – and theme. While the movie did a good job of capturing the most important themes from the book, it does not explore them with as much depth or subtlety, and it misses some of the less obvious ideas.

Forster addresses, for example, how people change. “One could be absolutely transformed … provided one didn’t care a damn for the past” (172). This idea hints at the constraints of a society that rigidly enforces roles relating to class, gender, profession, race, sexual orientation, etc. We grow comfortable in the niches to which we become accustomed, and even though we may experience pain in those places, we would have to sever ourselves completely from what we know in order to free ourselves from that pain. No wonder so few people exceed their so-called station in life. We are defeated by our own ambivalence, which is born of the comfortable ties we form with our past experience. In fact, Maurice begins to finds happiness because he transforms himself in one fundamental way (he increasingly accepts himself the way he is) while remaining steadfast in another (refusing to “become normal”). By the end, he even becomes willing to leave behind his family, station, and job in order to satisfy his heart.

Clive walks a different road. In the book, Clive writes from Greece, “‘Against my will I have become normal. I cannot help it’” (116). Based on the book’s presentation, I am inclined to think that for Clive their relationship was infatuation or adolescent experimentation. But the book also clearly reveals that Clive is never quite comfortable with heterosexuality either. He and his wife Anne, for example, never see each other naked.

If Clive lived today, in our contemporary culture, we would interpret his behavior as a gay man unable to accept his homosexuality but unable to truly fill the role of the heterosexual. But Clive lived in an era of excessive sexual repression. Lasker-Jones says, “England has always been disinclined to accept human nature.” Clive is the victim of his era. Although it’s definitely open to interpretation, I think in the book Clive had a youthful infatuation for Maurice, intensified by the single sex educational setting, and perhaps prolonged by Maurice’s genuine love and passion. Then Clive grows out of these feelings, but never finds himself quite comfortable with heterosexuality either. His culture’s sexual mores leave him unable to experience himself as a sexual being one way or the other. Although perhaps physically capable of sex, he is an emotional eunuch.

The movie presents Clive as a gay man who chooses the path of least resistance and conforms to the social norms of his society, at great personal cost. The ending, for him, is tragic: he stares out the window at a happy life that could have been and that he has lost forever.

Forster also uses his story to address questions of faith, because of course religion is intimately tied into homophobia. Forster writes with polite detachment but manages to convey a disdain for religious faith, which he suggests fails in day-to-day application because it is composed of one part inertia and one part arrogance. “He believed that he believed,” Forster writes of Maurice early in the novel, “and felt genuine pain when anything he was accustomed to met criticism – the pain that masqueraded among the middle classes as Faith” (45).

Later, Maurice has a conversation with a rather unpleasant, sanctimonious priest, who states hypocritically, “The unbeliever has always such a very clear idea as to what Belief ought to be, I wish I had half his certainty” (189-90). I chuckle at that statement because it seems to me the believer enjoys twice the unbeliever’s certainty. But that reaction is a version of “the grass is always greener on the other side” cliché.

Gay Positivity

As for Gay Positivity, both movie and book must necessarily reflect the mores of turn-of-the-century England, which was not a gay-positive time or place. It would thus be almost impossible to have a 100% happy gay story. And yet, both end well, with at least two characters finding strength and self-acceptance in themselves.

I weighted the movie and book a little bit differently. Both have essentially the same ending, and yet the presentation differs somewhat. The movie emphasizes a great romance, and the sadness of Clive’s path, while the book dithers a little and (in some ways appropriately) removes the focus from Maurice and his lover back to Maurice and Clive.

The Ending

Regarding Maurice’s relationship with the servant Alec Scudder, Lytton Strachey wrote to Forster on 12 March 1915, “As you describe it, I should have prophecied a rupture [in Maurice's and Alec's relationship] after 6 months — chiefly as a result of lack of common interests owing to class differences — and your Sherwood Forest ending appears to me slightly mythical.” Forster himself, in his afterward, says that he wanted a happy ending for his same-sex couple but implies he felt such happy endings lie in the province of fiction. Note how much later the book was published after it was written. I wonder how Forster might have revised this tale if he had lived to publish it today.